


The Last Dreaded Hour

by devera



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-29
Updated: 2011-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-17 08:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devera/pseuds/devera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If anyone thought that death would stop them, they were only slightly mistaken (vaguely 18th C highwayman AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Dreaded Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Based on/inspired by a drawing done long ago by the amazing and talentled indelicateink on livejournal, and her18th Century Highwayman AU, where [Hakkai was the undead and Gojyo his victim](http://indelicateink.livejournal.com/156504.html). Honestly, don't ask me what inspired _her_ , but she inspired _me_ to attempt something creepy and gothic. Maybe I managed it, but regardless I had a lot of fun writing it!
> 
> Posted originally at my [livejournal](http://devikun.livejournal.com/136484.html)

_"The last, the dreaded hour is come,  
That bears my love from me:  
I hear the dead note of the drum,  
I mark the fatal tree." _

_Gilderoy  
by Lesley Nelson-Burns_

 

He rode.

He rode as he had never before, at a breakneck pace through the trees, crouched low in the seat, leaning over his mount's neck to aid its stride. Such a run was madness, but madness was on his heels and he would keep it there for as long as he could. What attention he could spare for the suicidal flight told him with the cool pragmatism of a professional thief that he would likely not make it. His horse was labouring already, the breath rushing wetly out of it on every stride, its sides trembling between his legs with a mindless fear he could feel gnawing coldly at his own innards even as branches whipped past like a lash against his skin. It was all he could do to keep his seat and pray, and George Swift, The Red Hound of Hounslow Heath, did not pray.

Tonight, though, he did.

There was no sound of pursuit, but such a thing as he had just encountered, such things as he had never believed existed before tonight, surely did not hunt as mortal men did. George could still hear its sibilant voice, like a cold gotten down deep into his bones.

 _I will have back what is mine._

George had not cared to know what that… thing - that creature in the semblance of a man - considered his. And so he rode, and he knew the measure of his life was counted in the frantic pound of hooves on the earth over which he flew.

And then through the trees ahead, a break. He had been praying for that too, and for a moment he thought it some kind of trick, but it was the Great Western Road and he knew it meant freedom, escape. His mount seemed to sense it too, and leapt forward in a burst of energy George had not known it still possessed. They were close, mere strides. He was safe, he was _safe_. The familiar thrill of escape rushed through him, heady enough to split his face with a mad grin and a shout -

\- that turned into a cry as a thin, pale shape loomed up in his path. His mount shied, twisting with an animal scream and George felt the saddle shift wildly beneath him as the thoroughbred reared. His hands unclenched on the reins in shock and then he was flying through the air; and then he wasn't. The impact of landing knocked the breath from him, dazed him. Darkness of another sort threatened then, and he fought it as he had never fought anything. He knew – the same way he had known that in the road lay safety – that if he fainted now, all was lost. He forced himself up, hands, then knees, turning this way then the other, trying to see through pain blurred vision. His pistol was in his hand, and his hand was shaking.

And then he saw his horse. Dead. It lay some yards away, still and silent, frozen seemingly in stride, its eyes rolled back to the whites as if it had died instantly, as if its heart had burst, as if it had died from fright itself.

It was not so, not so, he told himself, breathing too fast, terrified almost past his own endurance. He had pushed it to breaking. It had -

Something seemed to move without moving, just in his peripheral. Without thinking, he turned toward it, fired.

The crack of the flintlock in the silence was near deafening, and in the brief flash George could see how near the thing was, could see its face as he hadn't been able to see it before, and it was no sort of face for a man, like grease smeared across glass, features vague and distorted.

There was silence for a moment as George stared at it. And then it looked down, and raised a pale hand to its chest.

 _Oh_ , it said. _You shot me._

And then, then George thought that he must be already dead or be otherwise going mad, because the monster laughed.

 _Bad joke_ , it explained, although George could not see its mouth moving, nor even if it had a mouth. _But you gave me quite the chase._ It lifted a slender hand and dug its fingers into the place where the shot had gone in and not come out. _Dear me. That's in quite deep._

George did not make the conscious decision to move; he only knew that suddenly he was on his feet, running.

And that the creature was in front of him.

It caught him before he could stop or change his direction, and its arms were real and strong and as cold as the grave. George did not have any breath left in him to scream.

 _Now_ , the creature chided. _A fine how to do that is._

George struggled, and it was like fighting against the weight of a mountain, like stone. The arms could not be moved, and yet the thing wrapped them around him, pressed itself closer, almost like… almost like…

 _Warm. I knew you'd be warm. I'm really cold. George._

It did not seem possible that he could feel any colder, but at those words George felt something sluice through him, some impossibly chill recognition. He felt abruptly dizzy, his senses reeling, as if he would open his eyes to find the world spinning, falling…

But when he did open his eyes, the world was as he had left it but for one small thing.

"Harry?" he heard someone say, and realised that it was his own voice.

 _Yes, that's right_ , Harry said, and smiled and George stared, because it was Harry's smile. No one smiled like Harry, like the world was a cruel and secret joke that only the two of them shared. Harry's smile in Harry's handsome face; Harry's knowing gaze meeting George's, the sheen of his blinded eye reflecting George's disbelieving expression.

 _I've been looking for you everywhere, George_ , Harry said. _I've missed you. I've been alone for so long._

George felt something catch viciously in his throat.

"Harry," he repeated, and couldn't even feel shame when his voice broke. "Is it you? Is it really you?"

 _Of course it is. Dear me, did you hit your head? Where have you been all this time?_

Suddenly a thousand things were crowding to leave George's throat.

"What the hell do you mean, where have I been?!" George cried. "I damn well looked for you _everywhere_! I searched for weeks! They said you were- I barely got away myself. I pulled in every favour I ever had to find out what had become of you. But no one knew. I thought maybe you managed to get away, that you were injured and set up somewhere. I checked every bolt hole we had. I looked up – I looked up your _sister_ , Harry! I –" And abruptly, George realised he was laughing, or making a noise that was somewhat like it, that he was clutching at Harry and he was laughing. "Mary's virgin tits, I've missed you, Harry! It hasn't been the same since -"

 _I know_ , Harry said soothingly. _Shh, I know_. He lifted a hand to brush George's hair back away from his face. It was such a familiar gesture that George drew in a sharp breath and could not seem to let it out again, but Harry's smile was gentle as his cool fingertips lingered against the side of George's face. _I missed you too. Didn't I say that? Look. I'm almost beside myself over it_. And he leaned forward and pressed his dry mouth to George's. And George let him, for they had kissed before many a time, kissed and more, and it had been so long, so _long_ without him.

Once upon a time, George had been for a solitary life, and then Harry had come along, and George had not been able to imagine life without him ever after.

"Harry," he breathed and Harry kissed him again, deeper. His tongue slid into George's mouth; it was cold and slick and agile. George shivered and opened his mouth around it and clung to Harry's shoulders, and it was a long time before Harry released him, or before George wanted to be released.

"Harry," he gasped finally, remembering something dimly - a mad flight through the woods, a carriage pulled by silent horses with no driver, a pale, indistinct face and fear; fear and death. "We can't stay here. We have to go! There was this creature, you see. I don't know where it's gotten to, but we shouldn't –"

 _I know. It's all right_ , Harry soothed, smiling again and George knew that smile; George's body knew that smile. Even after all this time, his pulse quickened at the sight of it. _We can go soon. But first, George, my dearest, dearest George, I want…_

If there had been any way George had forgotten that particular tone of Harry's, Harry's hands tugging with careful precision at George's neck cloth, his cool fingertips brushing against the skin of George's throat, would have reminded him.

"Harry, we should…" George started, but then Harry's hand insinuated itself inside his breeches and found him and he lost the words. Harry merely smiled and hushed him, and stroked, and suddenly George's whole body felt strange and leaden, as if he was in a bath with all the water draining out, as if he had been weighed down and thrown in the Thames, and when Harry kissed him again, he could barely manage to reciprocate.

 _That's right,_ Harry soothed. _Let me. You want me to, don't you?_ His hands were like ice on George's skin, so cold they burned, leaving numb sensation in their wake. George gasped with each piece of flesh they touched, wanted to tell Harry to warm himself up first, to at least put down a coat, but it was so like him to forget, or to wilfully ignore the convention. Never in the whole time George had known him had he ever stopped to think when passion of one kind or another was upon him.

Partly that was what George had always liked about him, that politeness almost ineffectually hiding the wildness of the man underneath, the way in which he fooled everyone around him, so easily, so effortlessly, with merely a smile and a polite word. And Harry for his part had always seemed pleased that George was not one of those fooled, that he saw that other harder side of him and still liked him. But then they were two of a kind and always had been, and George was no more capable of denying that than he was in denying Harry anything, anywhere, anytime, even now.

"Harry," George sighed, as Harry tugged his shirt open at the shoulder and fixed his cold mouth to his skin. "I really… missed you."

Harry moved to kiss him again, his tongue pushing into George's mouth and he moaned, frustrated that he could not seem to coordinate himself enough to kiss him back as he deserved. The sound seemed to do something to Harry. Suddenly, he was pulling at George's clothes with all haste; George heard something rip and guessed it was his breeches, but couldn't seem to raise enough desire to care – all desire in him was focused on Harry, on letting Harry do what he wanted.

It wasn't until Harry had him over on his face in the leaves and the dirt, his shirt hanging half off him, until cool air and colder hands caressed his bare buttocks, that George really understood how much he had missed this, missed Harry, how when Harry had been shot, that terrible night, that robbery gone so very wrong, when George had run rather than be shot himself, it had felt like a hole had been torn in his world, in his very heart. He had gone back and back and back, he had searched for his friend, for a corpse, for a grave, anything. He had stolen into magisters' offices for court records; he had asked everyone they had ever had any association with. He had almost given up. And now, here was Harry, and everything was alright again.

"Harry," he breathed again, his voice sounding even to his own ears as if it came from a distance. "I thought… you… were dead."

It felt like a dream, like it couldn't really be happening, the cold intrusion of Harry's fingers into his body a too distant sensation, his limbs slow to respond as his body moved where and how Harry wanted it to. It should have hurt, when Harry's prick nudged against him, pushing without consideration or concern into him, and perhaps it did, but he couldn't seem to feel it, could barely feel Harry's mouth against the side of his neck, his ear.

 _But I am, darling_ , Harry said. _Can't you tell, George? But I came back. For you. I would never let them take you from me. They can't have you._

George blinked, staring out at the pre-dawn darkness around them, watching as the trees rocked slowly in front of him with each thrust of Harry's hips and Harry's words sank into him like a stone in molasses.

"B…But you… You're not…. You- You can't be…"

 _Mine_ , Harry whispered, and George could not feel his breath against his skin. _You're mine. And I will have back what is mine._

The understanding came to him all at once, a bright, terrifying flare of certainty that filled his limbs with a heat that almost dispelled the cold that had taken over.

"No! No….."

 _Now you're objecting, George? I think it's a little late for that, don't you?_

"Oh, God protect me," George moaned again, fighting, trying to, but Harry was immovable, holding him as if he were no more than a child, and his amused, sympathetic tone – but George had gone mad, mad, because Harry wasn't speaking, this wasn't Harry – so familiar that the next words came out on a sob. "I don't want to die!"

Harry – the creature – paused at that, and George shivered in his hold and panted and could not be ashamed at the tears that sprung to his eyes.

 _You don't want to- ? Oh. Oh, dear me. George. George, you've got it all- Oh, for pity's sake._

George moaned again, this time at the sensation of that hard, foreign member sliding out from inside of him. His insides quivered, and fear had softened him to the point where he couldn't recall if he'd even been aroused in the first place. Cold, impossibly strong hands were gripping his shoulders, turning him over onto his back and he couldn't look, he couldn't. He squeezed his eyes shut and if he met his end with them closed, then no one would ever know what kind of coward he had been.

 _George! Oh, honestly. Do open your eyes and look at me._

George shook his head and kept his eyes screwed shut.

 _George, I'm not going to kill you!_

The sharpness of the words were like the crack of a rifle shot. George's heart jerked in his ribcage and his eyes snapped open without his permission.

And there was Harry, still; not the monster he had met earlier. He even looked… he even looked a little warmer than he had before.

 _Now_ , Harry said, and George was not going mad; his mouth did not move to speak, but it did move enough to smile, and the smile still looked like Harry's. _Let me make myself perfectly clear. I suppose I should have done so from the start, but I was a little confused upon meeting you. It's been a while since anyone has come here, and I've been… well, hungry, for want of a better term._

George blinked up at him. "Hungry?"

 _Let's just say, ‘the hungry dead' is somewhat more literal than metaphorical and leave it at that, shall we?_ Harry supplied with a wry twist of his lips. _Your…. heat… I just couldn't help myself. Even now, my dear. You make my mouth water._ And then he paused as if thinking. _Oh, well, that would be more metaphorical than literal, of course, but I'm sure you get the idea._

George stared and perhaps he was mad after all.

"But if you're hungry, then aren't you supposed to… eat me?"

The sensation of Harry laughing – not out loud perhaps but George heard him all the same – was strange to say the least.

 _I suppose so_ , Harry conceded, _but I am aware of no such requirement._

"Oh," George said, for want of anything else to say.

 _No_ , Harry agreed, and George thought his expression odd until he realised that he was looking at George with fond approval. _And besides, when have either of us ever done anything according to the rules?_

"I expect it was 1723," George said without thinking. "You know, when we were leaving from Portsmouth after that episode with the Admiral's wife?"

Harry blinked. _Oh, yes, I had forgotten that. Which was your fault, might I remind you?_

George rolled his eyes – an automatic reaction to an old argument. "And you've never let me forget it. I can't believe you kept the corset, Harry!"

 _I liked seeing you in it_ , Harry reminded lowly, his hands clenching on George's body and abruptly heat – unexpected and arousing – was washing through George's body.

"What-!" George gasped, arching into the sensation. "What are you- Harry."

 _Hmmm? Not entirely sure, to be honest, but it seems to be working anyway._

George gasped again. It felt like flames licking at his most sensitive places, inside and out. For a full minute he could not seem to form words, could only lie there and feel, Harry's cool hands on his skin a shocking counterpoint to the insensible heat inside him.

"I-" he gasped, struggling to keep his head together, and now Harry's mouth was teasing at his nipple, his cool, agile tongue flickering across it until it hardened enough for him to bite gently down on it. George moaned thickly, the sound catching low in his throat as he clutched at Harry's shoulders before he remembered himself again. "Can we just- Stop! Stop and discuss this a moment? You- You're-"

 _Undead?_ Harry supplied, lifting his head and smirking down at him.

"For a start, yes!" George cried. "Doesn't this seem just a little odd to you?"

 _Not particularly. Should it?_

"Yes! I mean, it's not… it's not possible. Right?"

Harry smirked again, and suddenly shifted, a sharp jerk of his hips against George's.

 _I'm not sure. Does it feel possible?_

"Christ in heaven," George muttered. It was a sad, sad state of affairs when he was the one to be calling for reason here. "All right, damn you. Fine. You're… not-dead. But Harry, have you thought for one moment past what happens next? I mean, not half an hour ago, I was running as if the devil were on my heels, and now you're telling me…." And that made George stop dead in his tracks, no pun intended, to suddenly look at Harry, really look at him. It wasn't like Harry to do anything – anything at all – without some kind of plan already laid out before him. And even if this was merely some creature who had taken Harry's form when he had died, it was enough like him for George to suspect that was still the case. "What are you telling me, exactly?"

Harry regarded him silently for a moment, and George knew that look; he was considering how much to say, and George was half naked, half buggered, lost in a haunted forest and at the mercy of a ghost, or one of the undead, or _whatever_ , masquerading as his best friend; there was no way in _hell_ he was letting him get away with that.

"Out with it, Harold Reginal Rutherford Chelsey, or I swear to the Almighty I will find a priest and have you exorcised."

 _Well, there's no need to be like that_ , Harry said, looking a little put out. _I was just thinking, why can't things just be… like they were before?_

George frowned. "Before you died, you mean?"

 _Yes. I don't see why they shouldn't. I don't think I'm particularly tied to any place. In fact, I've been wondering if I… awoke, or whatever it is that happened, because I'm tied to you._

George opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He tried again.

"Me? You mean you want to haunt me?!"

 _Haunt is such an unflattering word. Think of it more along the lines of… having an unusual companion. Oh, come on, George, don't look at me like that. Think of all the fun we can have! Think about all the places I could get into and out of without anyone seeing me, and that's just for a start. I could – oh, I don't even know what I can do yet, but I bet it'll be brilliant. We could ride the highways at night, like we used to, only now, George, we'll be legends. The Red Hound of Hounslow Heath, and the ghost that rides at his side. Women are just going to lap that up. No man will be able to catch you, and if it comes to it, I won't let them. I won't, George. Ever. I won't let anyone do to you what they did to me. Never. Never._

"Harry," George said urgently, putting his hands on Harry's face and staring right into it, into that fierce, frightening expression that was a thing least like his friend as George knew. "Harry. Stop it. Stop."

 _I… oh. George. I don't know what…_

"It's all right, Harry," George assured gently, because strangely, it was. "We'll work it out. We will. We always do, right? It's crazy. I should be locked up in Bedlam for just contemplating it, but we'll work something out."

 _George. Thank you. Thank you_ , he murmured, slumping down on top of George and lying there and George automatically put his arms around him and they were still a little cold, but it wasn't strange at all any longer. It was Harry.

 _Don't leave me, George. I don't want to be alone. Don't leave me._

"I won't," George murmured, smoothing Harry's hair down and turning his head to kiss his temple. "I swear I won't. Just as long as you don't leave me either, okay? Not again."

 _No_ , Harry agreed, and it almost sounded like he'd been crying, except when he raised his head again his eyes were as dry as they'd ever been. _And I'm terribly sorry about doing it the first time._

George smiled gently. "It wasn't your fault. I'm the one who left you."

Harry smiled back. _If you hadn't, I would have killed you myself, you fool. You shouldn't have even come back, probably. Only God knows what you've gotten yourself into now._

George laughed. "Well, it's done now, so never you mind it. Here, do you think I could maybe pull my breeches up again? I think some critter's biting my arse."

 _Oh. Oh, well, of…_

The way Harry's gaze went unfocused mid word gave George sudden pause.

"Harry? Harry, no."

 _Oh, but George, I'm still quite hungry_ , Harry said, a little matter of fact, but his expression in no uncertain terms carried his meaning. _And you can't stop me._

"Harry!" George cried, slightly more alarmed. "If you're going to start like that, I might have to call for that priest after all."

 _But, George…_

And George could have smacked himself in the face, but there was that look of Harry's – like a dog George had seen his father kick once when he was a lad – and he couldn't say no to it, even knowing what an act it was.

"Oh, all right, fine," he huffed, rolling over onto his front again, shivering a little as he felt Harry's hands back on his rear, parting his cheeks eagerly. "But if you take too much or whatever it is you're doing, and I die, _I'm_ coming back to haunt _you_."

 _And we definitely wouldn't want that_ , Harry agreed, laughing that strange soundless laugh of his again, before his cock was sliding back into George's asshole and his mouth was biting kisses against the back of his shoulder and he was thrusting and George was gasping and losing himself, cold, on fire again, spiralling out of control and possessed.

But it was all right, because it was Harry, after all.


End file.
